


The Trouble With Modern Art

by OneBadRat



Category: Being Human (UK), Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Bigotry & Prejudice, Explicit Language, Gen, Violence, misuse of sleeping spells and chip shop wares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 03:48:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneBadRat/pseuds/OneBadRat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>London, 1976. A young art student falls victim to a tragedy that sets her friend ‘Ripper’ on a violent path along with a vampire from the city's burgeoning punk scene.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Trouble With Modern Art

**Author's Note:**

> Originally entered for a 2009 Slayalive Crossover Challenge then reworked slightly once the 3000 word count & 7 day deadline stopped being an issue - I only just thought to archive it here though. The Ramones' "I Wanna Be Sedated" was my unofficial soundtrack for writing this.

“What the hell’s this?” Ethan had picked up an alien-looking white plastic object, tilting it under the room’s single light bulb.

“An electric toothbrush.” Olivia sighed. “Deirdre smuggled it out of Harrods, dropped it off yesterday.” Sat cross-legged on the floor, she twisted to hold her hand out for the appliance, as if waiting for a curious child to surrender a stolen toy. “Ripper luv, did you get that wire?”

Giles, sat slouched against the wall on Olivia’s bed, fumbled through the pockets of his biker jacket, eventually producing his contribution. “Eleven-gauge alright?”

“The best kind.” She smiled, letting her fingers stroke across his palm as she took the coil of guitar string.

She knew it was a sacrifice that would set his song writing back a few weeks until he could scrounge up a replacement. But her praise lit up the rogue watcher’s face, briefly transforming him in a rare moment devoid of self-consciousness.

It was a consistent weight in Olivia’s normally buoyant heart that Rupert ‘Ripper’ Giles, one of the most important people in her life, smiled about as much as he slept; which was hardly ever. It made him look older than his 22 years, left great dark circles around prematurely haunted eyes. She’d caught plenty of other girls sizing him up from behind, only to see them shy away from the oppressive weight of his gaze when their eyes met. For now, that heavy gaze was content to watch her assemble the various components scattered about her on the carpet.

Unlike his serious friend, Ethan almost always had a look of impish mischief. “You know, I’m sure Deirdre could get away with murder in broad daylight, long as she had her Sloane ranger twin set and pearls on… We’ll have to test the theory some time.” He and Giles were like Ying and Yang, the rocker and the mod. No one had ever quite worked out why the two got on so well. “So what did you learn at school today, Ollie?”

“Don’t call me Ollie. Makes me sound like the fat man from Laurel and Hardy.” she frowned.

“You can call me Stan if you want,” the warlock grinned, comically scratching the top of his head, “Go on, I’m curious as to what your days consist of when you’re not chucking paint about or cutting up magazines.”

Olivia couldn’t help but scowl at the implication. Being black, working class and female, she’d had to work three times harder than most to get as far as she had. “Well, today we were talking about Alexander Trocchi.” Still working as she talked, she separated the head of the toothbrush from the motor body to expose a fierce-looking metal shaft. “Kind of relevant to this little project… Trocchi was a big deal ten years ago, banging on about how modern artworks always start with an act of destruction.”

The trio chatted away while needles, pliers, wire cutters and duct tape reshaped and combined the ingredients of toothbrush, biro casing, pencil eraser and guitar string.

Ethan’s attention deficit led him to browse through Olivia’s dog-eared jotter pad, doodling on the free page above her notes from earlier that day. “Demolition of ‘the object’,” He read out from the student’s hurried handwriting. “All vital creation is at the other side of nihilism, after Nietzsche, after Dada. Hmm. I rather like that... Oh, that reminds me, Ripper, Dada-Kidawa’s playing at the Vortex tomorrow if you’re up for it.”

“Ready.” Olivia suddenly chirped before Giles could reply. Held up at eye level was the fruit of her labours, a homemade tattoo gun. “What am I drawing on you?”

Ethan held up the part of the jotter he’d been doodling on to reveal his own handiwork, looking far more excited than he had any right to. Outlined across the notepaper was an abstract serpentine sigil.

“Primeval art, luvvie.”

***

As Ethan sauntered up Church Street he was surprised to see Giles loitering outside The Vortex alone. The music from inside the venue had an odd quality, a marimba beat mixed with the echo of a snarling punk singer.

As soon as Ethan was in ear shot, Giles made his annoyance clear. “What the bloody hell made you think this was a good idea for a night out?”

“Pretty multicoloured flyer from a pretty girl in a multicoloured dress.” Ethan shrugged. “I take it this isn’t your cuppa tea then…?”

“No. And I’m dyin’ for a pint, so bugger this for a laugh.” The roll-up pushed to the corner of Giles mouth bobbed up and down as he spoke, like an extra wagging finger being used to scold his friend as the tip glowed an angry orange. “Where’s Olivia?”

Ethan frowned, puzzled. “Err, inside making the best of a bad gig?”

“She’s not here. I thought she’d be with you…”

“Nope. Haven’t seen her since our little body art commission.” He held up the raw-looking tattoo on his forearm to emphasise the point.

“Well, where the hell is she then?”

“Why am I supposed to know? She’s your girlfriend!”

“…Right. Well let’s hang about. She probably missed the bus or somethin’.”

An unsettled quiet fell over the pair as they drew back into a shop doorway. The last of the daylight finally faded away, leaving only the street lights that burned the same dull orange as the series of cigarettes the two men nursed. Early leavers began to filter out from the bar into the street. The buses stopped trundling past. Eventually Ethan reached the limit of his patience.

“Right, that’s it. Gimmie your baccy, Ripper.”

“What?”

“If Ollie won't come to the mountain, the mountain must come to Ollie. Gimmie your baccy. And your matches.”

Curious, Giles pulled his cigarette carton free of his rolled up shirt sleeve, fished out a worn parcel of loose tobacco and handed it to Ethan, who had sunk to his knees in the shop doorway. From his own pockets, the warlock produced a chicken foot and a few leaves that any other person would have assumed to be cannabis.

“You walk around with that in your pocket?!” Giles asked in disgust, pointing at the dismembered claw.

“It’s good luck, and very versatile for on-the-go rituals.” Using his own door key, Ethan scratched a circle and a few choice symbols onto the marble around him, gathered the tobacco and leaves in a little pile and promptly set it alight. Tobacco smoke filled the doorway like incense but Giles could still make out the extra ingredient in the air, like a sinister aftertaste.

“Diprecht, doh-tehenlo nu-Eryishon. Child to the mother. River to the sea… Olivia’s missing, show the trail from her to me.”

Realisation dawned on Giles. “That’s not how Eryishon's Recall goes, you can't use any old rhyme! Plus you need sand and candles and… wotnot. You’re wasting a weeks worth of my bloody rollies!”

Ethan dismissed him with a wave and held the chicken’s foot over the sputtering flame. It didn’t burn up, or even blacken. "Believe me, it's all in the intonation, chum." Standing up straight, Ethan presented the claw, now faintly glowing with its own supernatural light. “I haven’t got the right odds and sods for teleporting her here, not to mention the fact that she’d likely get very upset if I did that, so we’re going to play hot an’ cold instead. Come on.” Turning to each end of the street, the foot glowed strongly when held to the left. “Warmer. She’s this way,” he beckoned.

“Ethan?” As they passed the Vortex a cheery man’s voice with a distinct Dublin accent called from the entrance. “Ethan, ya little bugger! Where’ve you been all summer?”

Ethan paused, squinted in the light of the lobby. “…Mitchell?”

“I thought I could smell sommat queer outside!”

Giles eyed up the new presence with suspicion. Ethan had a tendency to get mixed up with the mad, bad and dangerous to know. Giles himself was proof enough of that. To be fair, the man didn’t look that dangerous at first glance. He was average height and slim build, black kohl caked around his eyes, black curly hair reminiscent of Mark Bolan and tanned skin that left him looking faintly exotic.

“Ripper, this is John Mitchell.” Ethan grinned. “I met him hangin' off Soo Catwoman’s arm at the 100 Club last year.”

“Looks like it.” Giles said, trying not to smirk at the leather dog collar around Mitchell’s neck. “This Soo girl actually a catwoman, or just one’a them punk weirdos?”

“Bit’a both.” Mitchell replied. “And I believe the exact term is ‘were-jaguar’.”

Giles blinked, stunned.

“What was the band like?” Ethan asked, pointing back into the Vortex bar.

Mitchell shrugged, sparking up a cigarette. In the time it took for one deep breath, he considered his review. “…Shite.”

Giles grinned and decided having Mitchell along might not be a bad idea. “We’re on a hunt tonight. Wanna come?” At the very least, he might be able to score a free cigarette or two.

***

Conversation with Mitchell turned out to be strange, mercurial thing. They talked about everything and anything, except for how exactly he’d come to know so much about Europe’s underground occult scene.

“I know her! Owe her a favour as a matter of fact.” The Irishman offered when Olivia’s name finally came up. “We met at this funny little, whatcha-call-it, happenin’, outside Hornsey College a while back. I ended up takin’ one of her friends out for dinner.”

Ethan sniggered at that. “Shame it was only you that got fed…” The comment clearly annoyed Mitchell and earned Ethan a swift elbow to the ribs before the conversation was steered on to how Olivia and Giles had met.

It seemed like the trio had been walking for barely a minute and forever at the same time when they eventually rounded the corner into Euston Road. They were greeted by the looming presence of the University College Hospital. Ethan’s chicken claw glowed brightly when held towards the great concrete monstrosity and Giles’ stomach filled with dread. There was no reason for her to be there, nothing but the certainty that bad things happened to good people.

***

“What did they say?” Ethan rose from his chair as Giles came stamping through the corridor. The look on his face genuinely sent a chill down his spine, the kind of murderous look that had earned him his nickname, softened only slightly by bloodshot eyes.

“What the hell happened?!” Mitchell joined in.

“No vampires or demons, just a bunch of bloody skinheads at the bus stop...” Giles’ voice was trembling with rage. “She was just waiting for a bus… one of them was carrying a wrench for fuck’s sake! The doctor said she’s lucky they left her teeth in her head! Lucky!”

The two other men looked horrified. Giles grabbed Ethan by the scruff of his jacket and started marching him down the corridor towards the exit. “Hey!” Mitchell called. “Ripper, where’re y’goin?! Ollie’s gonna need you!”

“Olivia’s not goin’ anywhere in a hurry, is she!” Giles growled. “So, Ethan's gonna train than chicken foot to find someone else for me.”

“I am?!”

“Yes, you are!” The warlock was shoved unceremoniously through a set of double swing doors. “Mitchell, gimmie your fags!”

“But…”

“NOW!”

***

Olivia had managed to describe her attackers, struggling around the gruesome injuries to her face. Giles listened intently to every last word that made it through her split, bloodied lips before the nurse upped her medication and sent her into a grateful sleep.

In his mind’s eye he focused intently on all the little details like tattoos, scars, steel toecaps with red laces; and through sheer force of will Ethan’s second spell of recall led them to a grotty chip shop near Olivia’s student flat. Stood outside were four burly youths, chomping down a late night dinner drenched in salt and vinegar. They were all wearing the traditional ‘bonehead’ uniform; buzz cuts, straight-leg bleachers with braces and black leather boots. Giles immediately picked out a tattoo of two crossed hammers on the neck of the nearest lad, just as Olivia had described it. He looked a little closer, saw the red Jackson-Pollock-stain on a white vest peeking from the gap in another’s jacket. Their nonchalance, their utter lack of shame made his blood boil. He walked straight past them into the chip shop, Mitchell and Ethan scurrying after him.

Once inside, Mitchell did a surprisingly good job of cornering Giles against the shop counter. “It was them, wasn’t it?” he swerved his head until the other man was forced to make eye contact. “Ripper!” Mitchell didn’t want to admit that he’d smelt the blood on them.

Giles' face twisted. “Get off me!”

“Alright, alright...” He freed Giles from the counter, wiping at his nose as if to clear the taint of the attackers outside. “Just makin’ sure you cool down some. Goin’ off it an getting’ yer head kicked in does nobody any good. Y'need a plan.”

“Guys!” Ethan pleaded. “Lets not do anything rash that gets us all arrested… What about a nice, non-confrontational curse of wasting death?”

But Giles had already turned to the weary, hair-netted woman shovelling chips out of the fryer. “Oi! D’you do pickled eggs?”

Mitchell and Ethan looked confused. “Just pickled onions, duckie.” The woman replied.

“How much for the whole jar?”

“What’s he gonna do?” Mitchell asked. “Suffocate them with bad breath?”

Before Ethan could reply, Giles had purchased the jar and was heading back out the door. “Ripper…”

The rogue-watcher marched straight up to the nearest skinhead, the one with the hammer tattoo. Quick as a flash, he raised the massive jar above his head and brought it crashing down onto his pale, shaved skull. There was a sickening crunching sound that accompanied the smash of breaking glass and the thug let out a primal howl as his head-wound flooded with rancid vinegar.

“Fuck!” Mitchell scrambled through the door while Ethan turned his attention to the woman behind the counter who was anxiously peering outside.

“I’m callin’ the police. I’m not havin’ you boys startin’ aggro, it’s bad for business!”

“Take the night off then.” Ethan ordered. He pulled back his sleeve to reveal the tattoo Olivia had etched the previous night.

“What’s that?”

“That’s Eyghon the Sleepwalker. Nunc ac bene quiesco.”

The woman’s eyes rolled back into her head and she slumped to the ground. In the morning she’d wake from the most peaceful and also the oddest night’s sleep in her entire life.

“Ethan!” Mitchell’s voice called from outside, almost drowned by the shouts of Giles and his remaining three adversaries. “If she’s got a phone, call Herrick!”

“Oi, come ‘ere, you puffy Irish mud!” And with that Mitchell found himself preoccupied.

Ethan was more than thankful to be given an excuse to keep out of harm’s way. Mitchell’s boss, Herrick, had a reputation as a ruthless, sadistic gangster; which had seemed at odds with his genial manner the one time he and Ethan met in person. But the older man’s arrival would surely make the whole sorry mess outside disappear, better than any magic.

***

With one attacker unconscious and the other curled into a foetal ball, Giles gave each a final kick in the ribs before looking to see how Mitchell was doing. The third skinhead was sprawled out on the pavement, white t-shirt stained red around his right shoulder. Partially obscured by a post-box, Mitchell was still grappling with the fourth. It took him a moment to realise the Irishman was actually supporting the thug’s weight, the body simply twitching involuntarily.

“Mitchell!” he called. “Leave it. C’mon, it’s done.”

The Irishman turned abruptly and snarled, like a wolf warning another pack member away from his food. He bore yellowing fangs turned pink from blood, but there was no pronounced ridging on his face like a normal vampire and his eyes were clouded by an oil-thick black. He dropped the body in his arms and the shadow in his vision dissipated. “Oh, I’m not done with these boys.”

Giles felt the same trickle of dread he’d suffered outside the hospital, dousing the rage that had been burning in his gut. What the humans had done to his lover was monstrous, but a childhood spent in the company of Watchers had taught him that vampires, or those like them, were to be feared and despised above all else, even the bigots lying scattered around them like road kill. Weren't they?

“What are you?” he asked blankly, emotionally burnt out from the night’s events.

“I’ll tell you what I am.” Mitchell said, calmly wiping the blood from his mouth. “I’m the one whose gonna be takin’ these bastards down to a nice little dungeon in Soho and chaining them up as entrées for a bunch o’friends. And that’s all you need to know, matey.”

Ingrained instinct still screamed in the back of Giles’ conscience. Vampires were the enemy of humankind. But in that moment he was strangely glad for their existence, glad that the malevolence of such creatures could be inflicted on the guilty as well as the innocent.

“Fine.” He sighed. “Hook ‘em on a wall like flying ducks for all I bloody care. I’m goin’ back to Olivia.”

“Be seein’ you ‘round then, Ripper.” Mitchell called

“Do me a favour, try not to eat Ethan.” Giles sighed, fighting back tears as he limped away.

***

Eventually a car pulled up in front of the takeaway, Herrick getting out from the driver’s side. “What’s all this then?” he frowned. “Throwing parties without me?”

“Nah.” Mitchell shrugged. “I thought y’pad could use a bit of livenin’ up, so these lads are gonna be helpin’ me out with a spot’ve modern art I’ve planned for the basement walls.”

"You could call it Quadra Corpus Sanguinis", Ethan quipped from his spot on the kerb next to Mitchell where he was sat struggling to eat thick-cut chips with a tiny wooden fork.

“Right...” Herrick acquiesced. “Remind me not to let you two 'decorate' the Devon cottage though, eh Mitch? Modern’s more of a city thing.”


End file.
